


Some Secrets Were Meant To Be Told

by SecretStudentDragonBlog



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Día de los Muertos | Day of the Dead, M/M, Peterick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 16:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16478882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretStudentDragonBlog/pseuds/SecretStudentDragonBlog
Summary: Pete gives Patrick a party the like of which has never been seen before nor ever will again. Maybe.But they haven't spoken in months. So why has Pete shown up on Halloween?





	Some Secrets Were Meant To Be Told

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first upload and also the first writing I've shown anyone since I was a teenager (many centuries ago). I'm in awe of the wonderful writers I've been privileged to come to know through here and I feel completely inadequate compared to all of them, but I said I'd upload...something, so here it is.

“So, let me get this straight.” Patrick paused, trying to think of the right words that could possibly explain what he was seeing. He was standing in the doorway of his apartment, Pete just behind him. Pete had his arms wrapped tightly around Patrick from behind, his chin resting on Patrick's shoulder, breath warm against his neck. Without turning his head to look, Patrick knew that Pete was grinning his brightest, widest grin, pretty much all his teeth on display and cheeks rounded out like a chipmunk. He was jittery with excitement, hopping from one foot to the other. He was, Patrick told himself, like a small child who’d eaten way too much Halloween candy. Before he could formulate his thoughts into sentences, Pete pressed a chapped-lipped kiss to his neck.

“Happy Halloween, ‘Trick!” Pete declared. He swept his arm expansively at the scene before them. “I got you all the gifts!”

“I mean, it’s November 1st, Pete.” Patrick began. “And gifts for Halloween? Also, what are you doing here?”

“Ok, so happy Día de Muertos!” Pete tried again, butchering the Mexican accent. He’d never had the ear for languages that Patrick did. “And if I want to get you gifts, I’m gonna get you gifts. And you have to admit this is a pretty neat gift, right?”

Patrick surveyed his apartment again. The obvious aside – and he noticed that Pete had neatly sidestepped the question about why he was currently standing in Patrick's apartment, where he definitely had no right being when they hadn’t spoken in months – yes, this was definitely maybe probably the greatest gift he’d ever received. But.

“They’re lookalikes, yeah?” He asked. “Like…you hired them from an agency?”

Pete made a disgusted sound into Patrick's ear.

“Lookalikes. Pssssshh! Remember who you’re dealing with here, please. Have you ever known me to do anything by half?” Pete pointed at specific people, picking them out of the throng. “That is David Bowie. That is Buddy Holly. That’s Kurt Cobain. That is fucking Freddie Mercury. And that guy, wearing head to toe purple silk and satin, is 100% Prince. I would have got Elvis Costello but he’s still alive, kind of. Plus, you already had him for Folie, so…” he shrugged.

Patrick just stared. This was real then. Bowie was deep in conversation with Jim Morrison, both of them with wine glasses in their hands. Freddie was sharing a bowl of chips with Michael Jackson, the two of them sitting on Patrick's couch and laughing over some private joke. And Prince was being lectured, by the looks of things, by-

“Why is my Mom’s Great-Aunt Gretchen here?” Patrick asked, dragging his eyes away from the diminutive-yet-terrifying woman currently haranguing his all-time favourite singer. He finally turned to face Pete, who looked as puzzled as Patrick felt.

“Yeah, that’s some kind of glitch.” Pete said. “I think you got her instead of Mama Cass, which sucks ‘cos I totally wanted to hear you duet with her. Sorry, dude. I didn’t do too badly, though, huh?”

“It’s amazing, Pete. Seriously.” Patrick blocked out the voice telling him that his living space was full of dead people. There were so many questions he wanted to ask all of them, so much knowledge to be gained, and, truth be told, so much fanboying to do. “How long are they here for?”

“Until sunrise.” Pete shrugged. “Or whenever you get tired of having dead legends in your house. Say the word and they’re gone.”

“But that means-“

“Shhh.” Pete cut him off. “Don’t ruin it. I worked hard on this. It took me months to put together for you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“No Elvis?” Patrick quirked his lips into a small smile.

“Believe it or not, that dude is incredibly popular. Who saw that coming? And I had no idea you had a thing for The King.” Pete dropped into a Southern drawl and curled his lip. Patrick pretended that Pete wasn’t rotating his hips obscenely into Patrick's butt.

“Not really, but if I’m getting dead rock stars, I might as well get-holy shit, is that Sid Vicious?” Patrick didn’t know he could still squeak like that. Pete grinned again, enjoying Patrick's embarrassed blush.

“Yeah. Ian Dury should be here somewhere too. And I asked for Keith Moon, but I didn’t hear anything back.”

“How did you do this, Wentz?” Patrick leaned sideways, attention caught by John Lennon going through his vinyl collection. He idly wondered how many records he could get signed before sunrise. “Am I actually looking at George Harrison sharing a joint with Bob Marley or did I have an aneurism on my way home from Joe's? Oh, we should get him over here! Hurley too!”

Pete shook his head, a grimace appearing on his face.

“Anyone else shows up this is all over, Patrick. This is for you, and only you. You can’t share it with anyone.”

“I can share it with you.” Patrick said quietly. There was something surging through him, some unexplained feeling, like he had to seize tonight or watch it slip through his fingers forever. He reached for Pete's hand and linked them together. Pete looked down in surprise, then squeezed gently. “Is that ok? If I share it with you?”

“You can share anything you like with me, ‘Trick.” Pete's voice was slightly shaky. “I made this happen, so I don’t count, technically speaking.”

“You’ve always counted to me.” Patrick said. “And you made everything happen. I’m who I am because of you.” Pete blinked. “You pushed me to try new things. The places we’ve been, Pete. The things we’ve seen and done. Have I ever said thank you?”

“Ok, Dr Seuss. You’re getting kinda maudlin and emotional now.” Pete looked down at their joined hands again, unable to keep eye contact while Patrick was being so sincere. This was undeniably more than he’d bargained for. He took a deep breath and tried to steer the conversation into more manageable waters. “Let’s have some fun. Who do you want to talk to first?” He took a step further into the room, trying to take Patrick with him. Patrick was having none of it and planted his feet firmly in place.

“You, Pete.” He tugged Pete to a standstill. “We need to talk.”

“And we will.” Pete looked anywhere, everywhere, but at Patrick, knowing that if their eyes met again, while Patrick was so intent on getting into this now, he’d be lost. And tonight was meant to be about giving Patrick a night to remember. It was supposed to be exciting and magical. It was magical – no doubt about that part. “Later, ‘Trick. I promise. But right now, I think Janis Joplin and Amy Winehouse might be about to get into an actual drinken fistfight and I don’t know whether we should break that shit up or watch it go down.”

“Uh, no fighting in my place!” Patrick still had hold of Pete's hand and they waded into the strangest possible-brawl of Patrick's life.

*

By 6.30am, the party was winding down. Pete leaned against the window ledge, a bottle of beer in his hand, exhausted but delirious with happiness. He’d watched Patrick work his way around everyone in the room, eyes alight with excitement through the night and into the morning. Signatures had been obtained, songs had been sung, instruments had been played, Patrick almost hyperventilating himself into passing out when Prince had picked up the white Stumpomatic and Bowie had sat himself at Patrick's baby grand, only for the two of them to ease into What a Catch, Donnie.

(The parts originally sung by friends of the band on the recorded version were doled out among various singers now in the room. When Aretha started in on Elvis Costello’s section, Pete made Patrick sit down, wondering if he was going to need his inhaler. Patrick had glanced up at Pete, a look Pete had never seen before in his eyes. Pete broke the eye contact again, as he had earlier in the evening, still not quite ready for what he hoped he was reading in Patrick's gaze. He’d kept a hand on Patrick's shoulder, not reacting outwardly when Patrick reached up and covered Pete's hand with his own.)

Now, he slid down the wall and sat on the floor, bone-tired and all-too-aware of sunrise creeping up on them. Patrick joined him, crossing his legs and leaning back against the wall, his knee lightly balanced on Pete's. For a beat or two, they just sat in silence, watching Patrick's guests and taking in the sound of Billie Holiday crooning to Nat King Cole. Then Patrick took Pete's hand again and Pete knew it was time.

“Ready to say goodnight, Patrick?” he asked. Patrick smiled that sunny, infectious smile that had always floored Pete.

“Goodnight, Patrick.” Patrick laughed, and Pete wondered if he was drunk or just high on the night. Did it matter? Pete laughed too.

Everyone in the room began to fade out of existence, glowing golden and hazy at the edges. Neither Pete nor Patrick spoke as the spirits vanished. When they were alone, Pete waited but Patrick's first question wasn’t what he expected.

“Do you love me?”

Pete gaped. Patrick turned away from Pete, looking into the corner of the room. Now, when Pete needed it most, Patrick wouldn’t meet his eye. He followed Patrick's line of sight. Oh. That thing? Yeah. They’d be coming back to that.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Who else do you think all the songs were about, ‘Trick?” He watched as Patrick lifted his arm, wiping his face with the sleeve of his cardigan. “Of course I love you. I’ve always loved you. I thought you knew that.”

Patrick finally looked back at Pete, eyes red-rimmed and watery, then got up onto his knees and braced himself with his hands on Pete's thighs, closing the distance between them. Pete didn’t have time to read the emotion in Patrick's eyes before their mouths met, but he had a feeling it was anger. Well, that he understood. The kiss was sweet and simple and over all too quickly. It was everything and Pete wanted more of it, wanted to drown in it. Patrick pulled back far enough to press his forehead to Pete's.

“Asshole.” He murmured. “You never said.”

“Only with every lyric I ever fucking wrote!” Pete objected. “Every little slip of paper I handed to you, every text message I sent you, every word of it. That was me telling you, Patrick. The whole world knew. You never said.”

“I should have.” Patrick sat back on his heels. “I was always too scared. That was the one thing you couldn’t push me into doing and it’s the only thing I regret.” He huffed out a breath, half sobbing. “And then you fucking died on me, Pete! When I got that call and they told me about the accident, I wished I was dead too. Because I was always too scared to tell you that I love you. I got to the hospital and you’d already gone. I couldn’t even give you my love to take with you.”

“Dead on arrival.” Pete tried to smile.

“Don’t.” Patrick told him fiercely. “All these months.” He abruptly changed the subject. “What’s it like? Where you were? Where they’ve all gone?” He jerked his head towards his now-abandoned piano and guitar. “Were you in heaven?”

“I…no.” Pete gestured, vaguely. “Honestly, I don’t know. It’s just another place. The music’s really sweet though. And time flows differently to here. Because me being here tonight, and bringing everyone else, you did that, but you only did it today in your time. Over there I knew months ago what you’d done and I had time to find people and bind them to me so that when I crossed over they did too. I wanted to give you something special.”

“I only wanted you.” Patrick placed his palm against Pete's cheek and stroked his cheekbone with his thumb. “You didn’t need to bring everyone else.”

“I didn’t think you’d just want me. Or I thought you’d called me so you could yell at me. Looks like I wasn’t far wrong.”

“Wait. What do you mean, ‘called you’? I didn’t call you.” Patrick shook his head, confused. “You think I did this?”

“Yeah, I don’t get it either. You’re atheist. How did you make that work?” Pete cocked his thumb at the corner of the room, the corner Patrick had turned to when he’d started to cry.

“Oh, that?” Patrick laughed humourlessly. “That’s a tribute to you. Joe said I’d built a shrine, which, y’know, made me feel a little dumb, but…you’re dead, so fuck everything.”

“It’s an ofrenda.” Pete heavily accented the word, murdering it once again. Patrick winced. “Día de Muertos, remember?” Patrick shook his head again – Pete hadn’t explained what that meant earlier, and Patrick had been too distracted to question it. “Day of the Dead. It’s kinda like Mexican Halloween. You built me an ofrenda, and put stuff on it to call me back. That’s what they’re for – hotline to heaven. They, like, welcome people back to celebrate with their families. Yours wasn’t intentional? There’s pizza there for me, dude.”

“I guess I must have seen it somewhere.” Patrick looked at the altar. He’d placed a small table in the corner, with Pete's picture prominent in the middle, surrounded by candles, an individual pizza and some peanut butter cups. The skulls dotted around the surface had been added by Andy, and Joe had put a packet of bass strings and a couple of picks alongside the photograph. Neither of them had really mocked Patrick for his little dedication to Pete – it was second nature for all of them to gently rib one another for unusual behaviour – and they’d both wanted to add their own offerings. 

“Yeah, somewhere Mexican.” Pete said. “Weird, but I think I might’ve put you onto it, actually. We were thinking of doing a video based around Day of the Dead, but we were only playing with the idea. Maybe some of the Google images stuck.”

“Maybe.” Patrick agreed. “But still. I’m not religious. And I’m definitely not Mexican. So why did this work?”

“Dude.” Pete said softly. Patrick turned back to him. “Love. Sappy as it seems, it worked because of love. True love.”

“And you brought all those others with you?” Patrick smiled sweetly now. “For me? All that just for me?”

“True love.” Pete repeated. “True love called me back, and true love made me strong enough to bring a fucking army of musical legends.” He took Patrick's hands in his. “For you. I love you to death, Patrick Stump. I’ve told you in so many different ways, in all kinds of combinations of words, and you never believed me. You are the sun and I’m just the planets spinning around you. I’m sorry every song’s about you. I’ll spin for you like your-”

“Stop. I get it, ok? I knew, Pete. I just never wanted to face it. And when the sun comes up you’re going to fade away too, aren’t you?” Pete nodded, dismayed at the raw grief in Patrick's eyes now. Patrick scrubbed the fresh tears away from his eyes, tried to look determined. “It’s not enough. One fucking night? One kiss? It’s not enough. This isn’t fair.” The tips of his ears were going pink as his temper began to climb. “If I’d known I could do this, bring you here to me, I would’ve…we could’ve…” he trailed off in frustration.

“’Trick, we couldn’t have done anything differently.” Pete caught Patrick's hands once more. “I could have come alone, yeah, but I didn’t want a night of awkward silences or fighting.”

“We could’ve fucked.”

“Excuse me?” Pete coughed. This was definitely the last thing he expected to hear from Patrick.

“If you’d left all those others behind, we could’ve had sex tonight.” Patrick thrust his chin out at Pete defiantly. “But you just had to show off, didn’t you?”

“A minute ago, it was the greatest thing to ever happen to you, man.” Pete was thoroughly bewildered. Patrick seemed to be running through every emotion known to man at a rate of knots and Pete was struggling to keep up. “We could have sex now, if that’s really what you want to do.” Pete raised his eyebrows hopefully.

“Except we can’t.” Patrick pointed to the window behind Pete, who turned his head to see the tell-tale grey hues of approaching sunrise. “You’re fading away, Pete.” The heartbreak in his voice was unbearable.

Pete lifted his hands in front of his face. They were blurred at the edges, becoming translucent and ghostly. He could almost see through them.

“It’s kind of cool.” He shrugged, tried to keep it light for Patrick. “Pretty Marty McFly. When I went last time there was none of this. That other car hit mine and bang! Lights out, Wentz.” He sighed. “Listen. This isn’t it. I’m pretty sure that this isn’t how our story ends.” He paused when the words hit him. “Fuck, would that ever make a great lyric. You need to get a Ouija board, so I can send you stuff to work with. I’ve been trying to write with people, y’know, over there? But none of them are you, ‘Trick.” He focused once more, all too aware of their time running short. “You can call me over again, next year. This isn’t a one-time offer.”

“Seriously?” Patrick's voice cracked. “You’ll come back again?”

“Sure. Don’t you get it yet? Your call was so strong it meant that everyone I brought over with me piggy-backed. You did that. They were only echoes. Echoes of the actual people, but they had to be with their families, you understand?” Patrick nodded. Pete was fading faster now, as the sun rose outside. His voice sounded fainter. “Shit. Point is, I’ll be here. One year from now, Patrick. You think you can wait that long?”

“I’ve waited this long, haven’t I?” Patrick grumbled. “Promise me, Pete. Promise you’ll be here.”

“I promise.” Pete was barely there, his voice a whisper. “C’mere. I need to say one last thing.”

Patrick scrambled forward, moving between Pete's knees and leaning into him. He kept a hair’s breadth between them, scared that if he tried to touch Pete he wouldn’t be able to and that he’d go straight through him, into the wall behind. He closed his eyes and waited, expecting something beautiful, something deep and haunting and tragic, coming from Pete the wordsmith, the silver-tongue. He held his breath, ready for the words of love and devotion that would carry him through to next October. Pete's voice was so faint Patrick only just heard the two words.

“Get lube.”

Patrick opened his eyes. Pete was gone, but his throaty, dirty chuckle hung in the air. Patrick huffed out in annoyance.

“Motherfucker.”


End file.
